The Ides of May

I worked on the garage yesterday.  It was not easy.  It was not fun.  It was necessary.

The boxes were threatening to take over my parking space.  There were newspapers and scraps of paper and loose sheets of bubble wrap all over the floor.  I collected and sorted and organized and threw out and stacked up and swept.

Then I sat down on one of the too-heavy-for-me-to-lift-alone boxes filled with books and looked to my right.  There, on top of an open box of memories, I found this:

The next time you think-about-but-put-off-for-now-and-then-forget-to-write a letter to someone you love,  I hope you remember the joy I felt when I held my father's handwriting, 48 years after the fact, small rivulets of tears running down my cheeks, smiling at his ability to recognize his own failings, not wanting to be a bother, but sending me a note which is not a platitude.

I framed it.  It's in the garage, on the shelf next to the refrigerator.  I'll see it every day.

So, go and write that letter you've been putting off.  Someone will love you for it.

*****

In case his handwriting is undecipherable, I've transcribed the note for you:

5/15/70

Dear Suz

     The Ides of May are upon us. and we yet survive.

     Hope you are very fine and well. and I look forward to seeing you soon and having you around.

     Lots of platitudes floating around in my head but don't want to annoy you with them but this is not a platitude

                          Love!

                            Daddy